My name is Paolo, but you can call me Paul. Paul Star would be my English name, which is in fact my real name, because I am the product of a secret experiment by some anarchist scientists. They created me from some random shiny stem cells, and made me get birth in an sort of box island right in the center of the Mediterranean sea, just for the sake of it (anarchists can be very funny sometimes). So I am a displaced, stateless man, living in this weird place called Sardinia, and it took years for me to understand my very origin was.. basically none.
Clues were not easy to be caught. I must admit my creators were clever enough to drop me in the most anonymous town here, a place called Macomer, where a strange alchemy of internal and external immigrants made the identity of the town sort of fade away, as if someone poured cold water in a glass of black wine. You can still feel the flavor and maybe get drunk with it if you really want to, but mostly the result is a pointless drink. So, in such a place, it’s very hard to find yourself displaced as I seem to be.
But something went wrong with the experiment. That was the day when George Best, a fellow comrade of those crazy scientists, went down in the laboratory for some booze. And you know, after some drinks people started to totter, and sway with glasses in their hands: so imperceptible drops of gin and whisky, mixed with very britannic sweat, fell into my home test tube, giving to me an ineffable sense of nostalgia, a real homesickness for the british islands.
That finally explains my above-average brilliancy in speaking english (which is not so easy to find in a person who has never been in England), my easiness with cold weather and cold people, and that melancholy feeling when I am at the bar and I dream about a wooden pub with potentially serial killers all together singing “There she goes” by the La’s.
Now I won’t tell you lies, I like the life I am living here. I always get a smile when I think about its weirdness and absurdity, and I am afraid that, when I will finally manage to visit my supposed homeland, it will be no way like I daydream about it.
I must never forget, though, that I am an experiment, and since my demiurges have vanished, or are maybe hidden somewhere observing me – which could mean that they realized the booze error and maybe created another person, in that case I hope to meet him or her (hopefully her) someday – I must find out my goal in life alone. So I will start reporting here what it’s like to be me, displaced in a displaced town, with my italian english – it’s like normal english, but full of gestures and strange sounds, seasoned with the orgasmic urgency of speaking in such a language and gagging to appear brilliant, in the end a very latin way to play the englishman: I find that it’s funnier to talk like this rather than using a quasi-native language that would appear everything but endearing.
So, my dear 25 readers, this is the end of my introduction to myself. As to appear classy, I will tie up with lines of a great French poet (I know how english people feel a sort of hate/love for those frog-eating people living on the other side of the Channel):
Derrière moi mes yeux se sont fermés
La lumière est brûlée la nuit décapitée
Des oiseaux plus grands que les vents
Ne savent plus où se poser.
Dans les tourments infirmes dans les rides des rires
Je ne cherche plus mon semblable
La vie s’est affaissée mes images sont sourdes
Tous les refus du monde ont dit leur dernier mot
Ils ne se rencontrent plus ils s’ignorent
Je suis seul je suis seul tout seul
Je n’ai jamais changé.